Pale Queen Rising (27 page)

Halfway down the adjacent alley is a metal gate stuck in the wall, seemingly out of place against the brick and mortar surrounding it. It leads nowhere, but there it is, locked tight to the wall and revealing nothing but grey brick. The metal isn’t iron, but a heavily tarnished silver, so enchanted it’s no doubt stronger than titanium. Magic meant to keep mortals like me out. Impenetrable by any weapon.

I grab a piece of chalk from my leather coat and scrawl a series of symbols on the wall between the bars, crossing thick lines over the padlock. The symbols probably appear innocuous to anyone passing by—not that there is anyone passing by. Triangles and concentric circles and words that haven’t been spoken on this side of the Faerie/Mortal divide in centuries. I complete an Eye of Horus over the padlock, then open myself to the small amount of magic I can access and send a pulse through the symbols.

A second later, the gate vanishes in a whir of dust.

No bang, no flash of light, just a silent gust that floats off in an unfelt breeze. My symbols still stain the brick wall. I glance down the empty alley, the sounds of human revelry almost as potent as the Dream cloying my nostrils like whiskey fumes. Then I press a hand to the seven-pointed star and step through the wall.

I’m not the life of most parties. Kind of goes with the territory. Which means that when I step into the dim, speakeasy-style bar, I’m not at all surprised that the room goes silent.

“Your highness,” someone whispers, and for a moment I go cold, worried that Mab somehow came here with me. Then I realize that the stranger is talking to—
about—
me. Someone wants to save his own skin.

This place has been on Mab’s (and thus,
my
) radar for years. But a small den selling untaxed Dream in a city teeming with the resource was barely more than a prick in her side. Just thinking of Mab tends to distract me, but I force myself to stay in the present. Where the fun is. Or will be. The Fey in the room watch me, still as statues and tense as piano wire. Some look like humans, but most are in their true forms—winged harpies or balls of light, thorny dryads or oil-slick shadows. Creatures to fear, all of them. And all of them currently terrified of me.

Normally I’d feel a hint of pride at that. Now I just feel numb.

“You’re all in violation of faerie law,” I say, my voice carrying to every corner of the room. Not that I’m talking loudly; it’s just
that quiet.
And no, there is no written faerie law, no “Section 3A” or whatever. But New Orleans is claimed for Winter, which means that any buying or selling of Dream in this city has to go through Mab. I glance to the vials and decanters of colorful distilled Dream stockpiled behind the bar. Enough to condemn them, and that’s only the Dream out in the open. I have no doubt that there are piles of powdered or tar-like Dream under the bar. “As such, your lives are forfeit.” For the first time that night, I smile. “I suggest you start running now.”

No, it’s not the ideal statement, but I’m not interested in eloquence. The rage inside of me craves blood, and knowing that every creature within this room is guilty of a crime punishable by death makes the hunger almost painful.

I tell myself it’s the anger. And nothing else.

Maybe a half second passes between my final word and the first spark of movement. It comes from a floating ball of light in the back corner, a Wisp the color of blue cotton candy that beelines for the curtain behind the bar. My smile cracks wider as I silently watch the Wisp’s attempt to flee. The moment it hits the curtain, it explodes in a shower of sparks.

It’s almost comical the way those in the room turn their heads as one to the flurry of light, then slowly back to me.

“I should have mentioned,” I say, reaching into one of my coat pockets and pulling out a deck of Tarot cards. They are worn and earth-toned and humming with power. “The place is enchanted against escape. No one comes or goes unless I say so. Perhaps telling you to run was a bit misleading. Sorry about that.”

I fan the deck in my hand and snap my fingers. Two cards slide out a little, and I pull out the one on the bottom and study it. “There’s another way, of course. You kill me, and the magic vanishes.” My smile turns wicked as I flip the card around to face the room.
The Wheel of Fate.
“Who’s ready to test their luck?”

I don’t just want blood tonight. I want a challenge. Something to prove that I’m alive for a reason, alive because I’ve fought for and earned it. Because I’m worth more alive than I am dead—worth more than the people I’m about to kill.

As expected, no one moves. Not at first.

“Come on, guys. I need a pick-me-up after what I’ve been through today. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Again, silence.

“Fine. I didn’t want to have to do this.”

That’s a lie. I did want to have to do this. I wanted to very much. That’s the biggest perk of being a mortal, one they all take for granted. We can lie through our teeth. We can make it an art.

I pull out the second card.
Five of Wands.
On it, five men are caught in a struggle, battling each other with great wooden staves. Definitely not a happy card.

Time to get this party started.

The sequel to A. R. Kahler’s Pale Queen Rising is forthcoming from 47North in 2016.